


Absence Is How They Haunt Us

by pettiot



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M, Grieving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22303213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca had a daughter, who wishes to know her absent father.
Relationships: Past Balthier/Ashe
Kudos: 2





	Absence Is How They Haunt Us

The Dynast King's throne was on a raised dais the likes of which had Ashelia loathe to descend for small causes, even to attend her daughter's cool rage. 

The clicking of her knees was no more than mortality's herald.

'Majesty,' the princess said, vowels clipped with her argument's conclusion, 'we _will_ speak of my father. Street rumor is not enough.'

The girl's auburn curls were pinned and piled high to bare an arrogant arch of neck, especially like that of her father's. Ashelia attended the fall of her robes; rather than regard this child of her body, the Queen gazed instead to her own beringed fingers, the pearlescent sheen of perfect nails. She did not prefer so heavy a style of jewel, once; in these aching years it seemed far easier to keep all royal seals and signifiers about her fingers, for reminder.

Into continued silence, the seneschal at her shoulder spoke. 'Majesty. If I may suggest, Her Highness--.'

Ashelia flicked her forefinger to restore her silence. She no longer remembered their names, these her loyal servants, or even _his_ names. Vaguely, she did recall that he who widowed her so precipitously was very similar, to always remember title over name. It may have been one of his few virtues. Titles meant more than names; titles continued, roles ever played with endlessly interchangeable actors.

'Balthier,' the princess spoke, a name a clear challenge, 'an infamous sky pirate who sacrificed all for the sake of those not his own blood; or Ffamran, who left all his rightful heritage within Archades for a matter of preserving his moral code instead. Whomever you wish to speak of, I will hear it.' She added, somewhat more hesitantly, 'I am of age, Majesty. If you will have me wed this Archadian who gives his suit, I will know somewhat of the fabric of what makes these men. And what makes me.'

The court stirred, uneasy in the lazy heat, an organism as barometer to the twist of Ashelia's own lips, kept inward for the matter of her dignity. The commoners could love and laud Balthier's name for saving them from the fall of Bahamut; the court could not. Lasting greatness could only stand on a foundation of law, not the lore found within a street-singer's song. If only Balthier had left her with a dedicated child who would follow on this throne, attendant to duty in a manner to satisfy both Queen and Crown; the princess instead took all the spite and fickle vitriol that had made Balthier's presence so intolerable, that contradictory source of his charm. For the matter of the princess's smile and the subsequent distraction of too many a knight, Ashelia would wed her off sooner rather than later. The Emperor Larsa had obliged, and provided his surety that the youth in question was not, in fact, another Bunansa bastard.

'Conduct yourself within my halls,' Ashelia spoke, at last, 'or stand without. Such names are not for speaking or speaking of.'

'Mother,' the princess snarled, 'if you will not tell me, I will ask _Larsa_.'

'Who will tell you as I have.'

'Then I will to the waters of Balfonheim to speak where the Viera Fran may hear.' Shoulders curved in too familiar a manner. 'Song-spun rumour sings to a greater fondness that lay between her and my father, so lacking from your own marriage bed. Perhaps a viera will have more tender a tale to tell.'

Ashelia descended, a float of robes, no regality and all sudden hurt, that latter a tide greater than mortality's gravitas; she reached to slap his daughter, firm and sharp. The girl cradled her cheek, held her tears, smiled her success.

'Such a performance, and before all the audience of Dalmascan entreaty. Are you pleased to so shame your own blood, here, where all can witness your youth and insecurity in the wend of your words? Child, you are your father's self-spiting spawn indeed.'

The princess bit her lip. Grey eyes; her own, Ashelia knew, but for the colour that flooded cheek and lip and hair, dark gold and copper, bronze, all the shades of precious metal; all Balthier's, this one was all _his_.

'You would know him,' Ashelia said, scornful. The girl's shoulders were broad with her height; Ashelia's gaze, leveled straight, could only reach the line of her daughter's long collarbones. Beringed hands curled about the girl's bare upper arms, pinching, firm. The girl resisted where Ashelia pushed, stubborn thing to perform so, grudgingly ceding each step. For the sheen of mirror and majesty that graced these halls, Ashelia turned the girl to face her reflection; the audience gave way about them, whispers now only of robes and never words.

Twinned eyes, one pair old, cold, the younger aching and storm-bound, met, if only via the mirror's interference.

'You would know your father? Thus: smile, daughter.'

The princess's brow furrowed. 'Release me, mother.'

'Smile!' Ashelia shook that arching length of youthfulness, hating the heat that warmed her cold palms, the grace strong, near masculine with height, with sure spread of stance. 'Smile, daughter, smile and let the world see him again, smile, smile!'

The princess's eyes shimmered, full of scorn, tears never shed, and surrender. Just like her father; and so the girl smiled. Ashelia set her forehead against her daughter's arm.

'There. See yourself, and see your smile, and know him; there, writ on your lips; there he stands.'

The princess smiled, cruel, compassionate; how could he so engender such a contradictory thing, to leave Ashelia with this reminder?

'Thank you,' the princess said, too coolly. 'Majesty. If that is the only way you knew him, well. I do not know if I pity you, or—no. I do pity you.'

'Ungrateful. I gave you life.'

And countered: 'So who gave me a love of life, if not him?'

'Hah! Certainly no love of duty.'

'Mother,' the princess said, and bowed – _bowed_. 'How very true. I will take my leave.'

There was no surprise, then, on the morrow, to find the princess fled and gone, a score of knightly hearts abandoned and broken in her wake.

Ashelia breathed, not a sigh of relief, not even truly a sigh; Ashelia sat on her throne, and simply breathed, for the distance was greater than years.


End file.
